


Two Rounds, Wear Me Out

by five_ht



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:19:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/five_ht/pseuds/five_ht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Most of the time, Arthur is controlled, sharp, professional, and badass. The best at what he does. But as soon as he gets to the bedroom he turns into a total slut, open and willing to do anything, submissive and eager to please. Eames is turned on by the fact that he's the only one who gets to see Arthur like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Rounds, Wear Me Out

Arthur really is quite secure with himself. He's damn good at his job; he's practiced, capable, deadly, and generally more intelligent than ninety percent of the people in any given population. Some ( _most_ ) may even call him cocky, but honestly, his reputation precedes him – insofar as one can garner a reputation in a business of secret identities and a complete lack of legitimate records.

So if he happens to like it when his big, strong, ex-Special Forces boyfriend holds him down and fucks him until he's worn out and sobbing, that is _certainly_ not something he's going to apologize for.

"Need you to fuck me," Arthur says breathlessly, shivering as Eames shoves him hard, face-first into the hotel room door.

"You're skipping 'want' today, are you?" Eames rumbles, one hand kneading Arthur's ass roughly.

Arthur nods, smirking and tipping his head back to rest on the hard muscle of Eames' shoulder. "Watching you with that rifle, six fucking headshots in a row… I didn't even know you had sniper training."

"There aren't a lot of firearms I can't handle," Eames says, grinning, then takes a fistful of Arthur's hair just to tug on it, just to make him whimper. He arches his back, feeling Eames' cock start to stiffen against his ass.

"We should go to that shooting range again soon," Arthur says, grinding back.

"Darling, I don't think they let you back in after they catch you shagging in the bathroom," Eames points out. He turns Arthur then, catching his jaw between strong fingers and kissing him roughly, squeezing hard and making Arthur's mouth drop open on a moan.

"Really-" he tries, words muffled against Eames' lips and tongue, "-really need you to fuck me."

Eames releases him, sweeping his eyes over Arthur's body in a way that makes Arthur tense and shiver.

He blinks slowly, wetting his lips. "Please."

He lets out a yelp that dissolves into a moan as Eames lifts him from the floor, hands gripping just under Arthur's ass. Arthur will never tire of having Eames carry him to bed, and he's half-hard by the time they've crossed the length of the room, just from the press of his cock against Eames' stomach, just from Eames' fucking _arms_ , taut and huge and holding all of Arthur's weight.

Eames drops him sideways across the mattress and Arthur sprawls, legs spread. He feels hot in his clothing, too many layers, and he struggles out of his pants and his sweater, stopping when Eames crawls over him, already shirtless, hand on Arthur's chest.

"Leave it," he says, running his fingers down the soft, dark fabric of Arthur's shirt. Arthur bites his lip, because he knows how much Eames likes ruining his clothes, and this shirt is _new_ but – oh – Eames grinds down against him and Arthur immediately cares a lot less. He's wound up already, arching into the touch and pulling his knees up to cradle Eames between his thighs. He cranes his head back so Eames can suck a vicious mark into his neck, and yeah, Eames is in a mood too, and it's going to be one of _those_ nights.

"Pants," he mutters, dropping his hands to the offending article and finding Eames already there taking care of it. Arthur reaches instead for the nightstand, stretching to grope for the bottle of lube that the housekeeping staff so helpfully rescues from the sheets every morning.

"Next time we go under," Eames says, squirming his slacks off, "I'm going to tie you up and fuck you with a gun to your head, and I'll waste any projection that comes near us… Headshots, every time."

"Eames," Arthur moans, pressing the lube into his palm and running his other hand over Eames' torso, "Jesus Christ, _fuck me_."

Slick fingers slide into him, and Arthur squirms at the tease, clenching around the intrusion that's not even close to enough. He shakes his head, frustrated, and reaches down to wrap his fingers tight around Eames' cock, raising his hips to make his intentions crystal clear.

"No, just, come here," he says, locking his ankles around Eames' back, "Just put your-- _fuck_ " he loses his breath as Eames slams inside, only a little bit of lube to ease the way. He clenches his teeth at the burn, Eames leaning down to bite at his lip.

"Someday I'm going to really hurt you," he observes, his voice tight.

"I can take it," Arthur grits out, shuddering as Eames moves a little, pleasure tangled with pain.

"Oh, I don't doubt that, gorgeous," he says, giving Arthur a full, hard thrust that makes his body go rigid, it's so fucking good. "I've seen for myself just how much you can take… Let's see if I can wear you out, hm?"

Nodding, Arthur reaches above his head, gripping the edge of the mattress, scrambling for leverage to meet Eames' movements with his own, fucking himself down onto the cock that's stretching him wide. Hard and fast, the way he needs it, the way Eames loves to give it to him. Eames goes at everything full-tilt, matching Arthur for moans, meeting every enthusiastic lunge with one of his own. Even Arthur has trouble keeping up sometimes.

Eames bites at his throat, scraping and sucking and leaving marks that shirt collars won't hide. He fucks Arthur at a brutal pace, throwing all of his weight behind it, and if this mattress survives the length of this job, it'll be a miracle.

Jerking, Arthur moans when warm fingers find his cock, pressing hard and dripping on their bellies. Eames is coiled tight, growling into the collar of Arthur's shirt, his hand working Arthur frantically.

"Want you to come in me," Arthur breathes into his hair, arching and twisting and getting Eames as far inside as he can. "Please, just – let me feel it, fill me up…"

Eames lets loose a strangled shout, and Arthur tightens around him. He turns his head and catches the soft cotton of his shirt between his teeth, whimpering as Eames spills inside him, his hand on Arthur's cock stuttering and squeezing.

"Look at me," Eames rasps, mouthing Arthur's jaw until he opens his eyes. It's Eames' face, really that does him in, those lips and the sweat on his brow and the way he just fucking _stares_ and Arthur can't protect himself from it.

"Oh, oh," he moans, and it's breathy and high and nowhere near as embarrassing as it should be. Eames strokes him through the orgasm, whispering filthy flattery into Arthur's slack mouth, and his shirt is ruined, white streaks and sweat from them both soaking its dark fabric.

Neither of them have caught their breath before Eames pulls out, Arthur giving a grunt of protest before he's being turned, flat on his belly and then ass in the air, face pressed down to the mattress. Fingers find his hole, teasing him through the mess dripping out of him, making him twitch.

"Eames," he gasps as two fingers push inside, as deep as they can go, pressing mercilessly until Eames finds his prostate and drags them across it.

"When can you get hard again?" Eames whispers into the nape of Arthur's neck, and Arthur barely processes the words though the rushing in his ears.

"N-not – not yet, not y-yet, holy _fuck_ …" air stutters though his throat, his whole body tensing and jerking from Eames rubbing at him.

Eames' heat leaves his back then, but his fingers remain, spreading apart and testing Arthur's limits. Arthur jumps at the first swipe of Eames' tongue, teasing at the skin where his fingers are stretching him. He moans, and it sounds helpless because that's how he feels, oversensitive and twitching and out of control. There's an echoing, rumbling moan behind him.

"You must be so sore," Eames muses, punctuating his words with another lick, lapping up his own come, "You can't resist having me fuck you open, can you?"

Arthur's reply is nothing but a whine, tugging at his own hair when that tongue darts inside him. Another finger joins the first two, and Arthur is spent and shaking but he rocks back anyway, looking for more.

"Please," he hears himself say.

"Please what, beautiful?" Eames whispers, dragging his tongue around the sensitive skin of Arthur's hole, tracing where he's stretched around his fingers. "Do you want me to stop?"

Jesus _Christ_. "Don't stop, don't fucking stop."

"So that's a 'please, more', is it?"

" _Please_ ," Arthur says, then tenses when another finger presses inside, gentle at first and then shoving, all at once, four fingers and a teasing tongue short circuiting his nerves. Eames' fingers are thick and long, stretching him open and it's almost too much. They're so deep, right up to the last knuckle and if Eames shoves his hand inside him right now, Arthur may just pass out.

"Your -- Eames, your fucking _hand_ ," he tries, and he can't remember if he opened his mouth to warn against the action or to beg for it. He feels himself pressing back, desperate for something, anything at all.

Eames mouths his neck, breathing heavy and hot onto Arthur's burning skin. "You'd let me fist you," he muses, and it's not a question, because he knows. Fingers rub hard, sending electric shocks through Arthur's body. "You'd take anything I wanted, look at you, darling, just look at you. Wet and sloppy and begging for me."

"Eames," Arthur gasps, because it's the only word he can think of, and he's definitely getting hard again, and he's dizzy and hot and something needs to happen _soon_ or he's going to shake apart.

Then the stretch and burn disappear, leaving him with what feels like just two fingers. Arthur clenches his eyes shut and sobs at the loss, just for a split second before Eames is pressing his cock in again, fingers stretching Arthur open for it.

"Oh fuck, _fuck_ , it's – it's –" _too much; so good; fucking perfect,_ clenching hard around Eames' fingers and his cock. Arthur's body is tense and jerking, breath coming in burning gasps, Eames is big and hard and deep, and he can't think, he can't--

"Breathe," Eames is murmuring, running one big, warm hand up Arthur's spine underneath his shirt, smoothing him out, "Deep breaths, darling, I've got you." And the fingers leave, and Eames bottoms out inside him, and he leans over Arthur and weighs him down until he's lying flat on his stomach, boneless with Eames moving on top of him.

Arthur barely has it in him to press his hips back, overheated and sweating with his shirt still clinging to him, too strung-out to do anything more than spread his legs wide and clench around Eames' cock each time he thrusts inside.

That seems to please Eames just fine, who presses Arthur to the bed with a hand between his shoulder blades. He fucks him hard, hard enough to make Arthur whimper and gasp, so hard that Arthur would be sore just from this. He can't do much to help things along with Eames weighing him down, but he moans his encouragement, beyond sentences but not past _harder faster more_.

His orgasm is a passive one, something out of the ordinary for him. Eames slams in hard and Arthur sobs, toes curling and hips twitching as he comes, adding another wet stain to his shirt and the bedclothes. Eames fucks him through it, drags it out as long as he can until he gasps, something like Arthur's name on his lips. He comes, and Arthur gives a contented hum when he feels it, hot and wet and staining him inside, too.

It's pure single-mindedness that keeps Arthur from surrendering to sleep right then and there. He can't move a lot, really, but he can certainly squirm, and shiver, and _clench_.

"Arthur… Arthur," Eames mutters sleepily, "Arthur, I can't fuck you again."

"Can't, or won't?" Arthur slurs, still wriggling, drained of energy but not of enthusiasm.

"It's a little of both, really. The spirit is willing, but you know the rest," Eames pulls out slowly and Arthur hisses, the emptiness feeling foreign. "You can't possibly be telling me that you could get it up again right now."

"I fail to see why that should stop me from getting fucked," Arthur says, but his limbs are heavy, and he can't do much to prevent it when Eames manhandles him up to the pillows, arranging him on his side and sliding in behind him.

"In the morning, duck, I promise," Eames rubs one gentle finger across Arthur's hole, and even Arthur can't deny that it hurts a little. "You'll wake up still sore, with my cock in your ass. That'll be fun, huh?"

Arthur knows damn well that that's a lie; Eames has never been the first one awake, and the trend is not likely to change tomorrow. But he smiles anyway, pressing back, and lets the filthy promise pull him down into contented sleep.


End file.
